There is an old, wind-lashed bunker standing where the redwoods meet the rolling hills of Marin County, covered in marks left by hikers and graffers, overlooking the dusky sea like a sign of the end of times left at the end of the land.

The bunker is empty, save for litter and dead branches, and rests here at the top of a ridge, reminiscing its collapsed history, an odd trace of past fears enduring in the half-light of endless Californian sunsets.

The road below is sometimes lit by lone headlights, cars swifting by the winding road and into the spiraling darkness of the coastal mountains.

Bobcats can be heard growling in the night.

Tall weeds bow under the southern winds.

The whole place is fucking beautiful.

Tommy found it when we were in elementary school. He was always adventuring on his own, always away from the rest of us. My brother never quite feel like part of the family, like a doppleganger introduced into our midst when our parents hadn’t been looking.

Tommy’s bunker was one of his escapes, a place to go when his rowdy brothers were too much for him, when I was too much for him. I never knew what he did up there. Not the sorts of things that normal kids would do. No playing war, or taking girls there —when we were old enough for girls.

It was years before he showed it to any of us. He was so good at keeping secrets. Maybe we never really tried to weedle them out of him. Maybe we didn’t care enough to. Certainly we didn’t after girls were part of the picture.